Onions
by katbybee
Summary: Please Note: Completed 2019, Corrected 2020. Written for Abracadebra's "Bring Back the Whump" challenge. (I confess it's a WIP I've had on the back burner for a while, so I decided to dust it off and finish it.) I own nothing… reviews would be cool. Thank you Xav for your input and beta abilities. I could not do it without you!


****Summary: ****Written for Abracadebra's "Bring Back the Whump" challenge. (I confess it's a WIP I've had on the back burner for a while, so I decided to dust it off and finish it.) I own nothing… reviews would be cool. Thank you Xav for your input and beta abilities. I could not do it without you!

****Winter 1943****

****Barracks Two****

Peter Newkirk shifted restlessly in his sleep. A harsh sound woke him, and it took him a moment to place what it was. __Andrew.__ The deep, rattling cough was getting worse. Peter shook his head grimly and jumped off his bunk to check on his best mate. He dragged his grey wool blanket down and laid it over top of Carter's own threadbare one. Peter shook his head. They had all received new blankets for Christmas from the Red Cross, but Andrew had given his to a young flier they had helped escape two weeks before. The boy had a cold and Andrew thought he should have the extra warmth.

And then a week ago, during the worst of the most recent cold snap, had come the sound they had all come to dread. Andrew had begun to cough. It wasn't much at first, and he tried to pass it off as nothing, but they all knew it wasn't true. He held the dubious camp record for having had pneumonia more times than anyone else, and he desperately did not want to add to his tally. The last time Joe Wilson had barely pulled him through. And so, as if denial would delay the inevitable, he hid his symptoms for as long as he could. He even swiped some of Newkirk's gunpowder allergy remedy, * to no avail.

Peter gently placed his hand on Andrew's forehead and swore under his breath. He was burning up! He knew they couldn't wait, and he crossed the room quietly and tapped on Col. Hogan's door. The colonel was a light sleeper and he answered almost immediately. "Come."

Peter stuck his head through the door. "Sorry sir, but we need to get Wilson. Andrew's worse."

Hogan nodded. "Okay. You stay with Carter. I'll send for Wilson." He sat up and pulled on his robe. He hurried out into the main barracks and tapped Dieter, aka "Gopher."

The blond tunnel engineer blinked sleep from his eyes. "What's up, sir?"

"Gopher, we need Wilson for Carter."

"Yessir." He pulled on his clothes and boots quickly and disappeared down the tunnel underneath the sink. Only a few minutes later, he reappeared with the camp medic, Sgt. Joe Wilson, who lost no time examining Andrew, who attempted to bat him away feverishly. He turned grimly to Hogan. They stepped into Hogan's quarters. Half the men in the barracks were awake and watching the two.

Joe shook his head. "It's not good. I think is pneumonia is setting in again. I have no way of getting penicillin right now. You know how hard it is to get from London, and with this weather, getting it from the Underground is going to be a problem. We may be able to get a small supply, but I really doubt it's going to be enough." He sighed deeply. "I've been afraid of this. We could lose him this time, Colonel."

Hogan shook his head vehemently. "No, damnit. That is not going to happen. There has to be something we can do."

"Well, keep him as hydrated as possible, and give him aspirin. I'll leave some with you. That's all I can do for now. If you can figure a way, have LeBeau make him some chicken broth. I'll check on him tomorrow. I wish I could do more, colonel."

Hogan nodded. "I know, Joe. Thanks." The medic headed back to Barracks Five. No one got much sleep the rest of the night.

****~HH~****

By morning, the signs were unmistakable, and Joe moved Andrew into the Infirmary. There was not much he could do for him, but at least it meant the other men could get some sleep.

It was very quiet in the barracks that afternoon. Hogan was in his office, sketching. He often did this when he was troubled, or bored. Sometimes he did it just to blow off steam. At the moment, it was because he was scared. He cared deeply about all of his men, but there was something different about Andrew. He was the youngest of all the men in camp, which was part of it.

But more than his age, it was his sunny spirit that set him apart from the rest of them. It was not that he was naïve, exactly. He wasn't. You couldn't be a POW and experience everything Carter had and be naïve. It just wasn't possible. But somehow, he managed to maintain an innocence that was refreshing and rare. Hogan doubted he himself would be able to survive this place without Andrew.

****~HH~****

****Barracks Two****

Roll call that evening was a quiet and morose affair. Carter's absence was keenly felt, even by the Germans. Peter Newkirk was their resident prankster, but Carter was their inveterate heckler. He delighted in tossing out one-liners to puncture Klink's grandiose and long-winded speeches, usually with Newkirk and LeBeau's able assistance. Privately, Hogan was of the opinion that Andrew was rarely called on the carpet for these antics only because of the diversionary tactics of the other men in the barracks. He was also sure Andrew did it purely to fulfill part of their own mission… to annoy, harass and harry the enemy whenever possible.

Afterwards, the men sat around the table drinking the last of their Red Cross coffee and talking. Taffy looked thoughtful. "You know, I'm not sure why I never remembered this before, but when I was a little boy working in the mines, a lot of men would have terrible coughs, and many died from lung sickness—black lung disease. Their women… their wives and mothers… would use a hot onion poultice, to bring up the coal dust out of their lungs. It wasn't a cure for the sickness, but at least they were able to breathe better." There was a distant expression on his face as his memories took him far away.

After a few moments, Taffy focused on Hogan. "It seems to me that if it helped them, then we could do the same for Carter. It might help him get rid of the infection in his lungs. At the very least, he should be more comfortable."

Hogan looked at Taffy intently. "How many onions would it take?"

Taffy shrugged. "It depends on how long it takes for him to respond, I guess. You need two or three good-sized onions for each poultice. One poultice can last for a couple of treatments, though with a bad infection, you shouldn't risk re-using them."

Hogan looked keenly at the little Welsh chaplain. "Have you ever been treated with an onion poultice, Taffy?"

Taffy nodded. "Yeah, a couple of times, a long time ago. It wasn't pleasant, but it did the trick. Fortunately, I wasn't in the mines as long as some of the others." His eyes grew sad and distant once again, and Hogan placed his hand on the other man's shoulder for just a moment. __Taffy was the one the other men went to with their problems. Hogan resolved to talk to him later about the loss he had read the chaplain's face.__ He then looked over at LeBeau. "How are we fixed for onions, Louis?"

LeBeau shook his head. "Only two. I used the other one in the stew yesterday."

Hogan frowned. "Not gonna be enough."

Newkirk grinned, his eyes glittering. "Not a problem. These bloody krauts allus seem to 'ave plenty of onions in their pantry. I'll just pop in an' relieve 'em of a sack or two. We could use some more potatoes too, come to that."

Olsen nodded. "I'm with you, Pete."

Hogan sighed. "Okay, but you two be careful. Get over there tonight and come straight back. No side trips." He looked sternly at Newkirk. "And no tricks. Leave the guards alone."

Newkirk grinned. "Anythin' you say, guv." Hogan rolled his eyes.

LeBeau looked at Taffy. "To make this poultice, are the onions sautéed or are they boiled?"

"I've seen women do it both ways. I guess it's personal preference, but the idea is to get as much of the healing properties of the onions out as possible."

LeBeau thought intently for a moment and then looked at Newkirk. "See if you can find a bottle of cooking oil as well. I am nearly out. Olive oil would be best, if those cretins have any."

Hogan quirked an eyebrow. "Olive oil?"

LeBeau's chin came up slightly. "Nothing is too good for Andre'." He stood and began clearing the coffee cups from the table.

****~HH~****

****Camp Kitchen****

****0100 Hours****

Newkirk and Olsen had slipped through the tunnels and come up behind the kitchen after they figured the guards were getting tired and bored. They stuck as deeply in the shadows as they could, not wanting to outline themselves in the bright white snow. Both were shaking with the cold by the time they reached their destination. Danny could hear Peter muttering under his breath about the "bloody krauts."

It was a matter of minutes before they were inside the kitchen, which had retained some of its heat, due to the fact that the massive ovens had been used that day to bake the brown sawdust-laced bread fed to the prisoners. Newkirk growled when he spotted a small bag of white flour sitting on a shelf. Danny was not surprised when it suddenly vanished into thin air. The lining of Peter Newkirk's greatcoat was legendary for its ability to hide a great variety of objects. Before they reached their destination, the bins that held the bags of onions and potatoes, Danny counted a tin of tea, another of coffee and an unheard-of treasure…six oranges find their way into the coat.

Not to be outdone, Danny snagged a bag of sugar and deposited inside his jacket.

They got the onions and potatoes, and Danny had added a box of cocoa and a knob of butter to his stash. They were elated and ready to leave when Newkirk suddenly remembered two things. They still needed oil. Olive oil. And they needed a chicken so Louis could make Andrew chicken broth. He knew exactly where they kept the frozen meat. He set Danny looking for the oil and he made his way to the meat locker.

It was about ten minutes before Danny realized something was wrong. Because Pete had not come back out from the meat locker. It had taken Olsen only about four minutes to locate the oil…not olive, but it would have to do. And then, he had waited, as Pete had instructed. No Newkirk. __Not good.__ He stacked their loot by the back door of the kitchen and went to the door of the meat locker. The door was shut. No Newkirk. __Odd.__ If he were inside, the door should still be open. He would never let it shut, because he had made the point that you couldn't open it from the inside. __Oh.__

He pulled the door open. And looked into the very annoyed emerald eyes of an extremely irritated Newkirk. Peter hefted the two frozen chickens and thrust them into Danny's hands. "__You__ get to hide those, mate."

****~HH~****

****Barracks Two****

They made it back with all their loot intact. How they managed it, no one had any idea. Louis lost no time in making Newkirk a pot of tea, which he promptly drained and then a pot of coffee for the others. He put the rest of the purloined supplies into their communal pantry, set the chickens out to thaw and practically fainted when he saw the white flour. He promised he would think of something very special to make with it. The oranges put every man in the room speechless, as Newkirk knew it would. The men were all for peeling and eating them right then and there, but Hogan stopped them.

"Wait, fellas. Think about it. Those oranges are gonna mean trouble. The rest of this stuff, well, we've swiped these kinds of things before, but oranges? In Germany in the middle of winter? You can bet Klink got his hands on those from some high-mucky-muck…and he will turn the camp upside-down when they turn up missing. No guard would dare steal them. He's gonna blame us." He shook his head. "Sorry, Newkirk. You're gonna have to put 'em back."

There were murmurs of disappointment all around, and Newkirk's eyes were mutinous, but even he had to admit he could see the colonel's point. But he was not backing down without a fight. "What I wanna know is, if these things are so bloomin' precious to 'im, wot the hell were they doin' in the kitchen?"

Louis nodded vigorously. "Would not le commandant have kept them for himself if he had received them?"

Hogan nodded, thinking out loud, "More likely, one of the camp cooks stole them somewhere, or bought them on the black market. And if Klink knew about that, and that the cook apparently had no intention of sharing the goodies, then…"

Newkirk's grin lit up to a thousand watts. "Why, then Guv, I've just saved that poor cook from bein' sent off to the Russian Front, 'aven't I, wonderful 'uman bein' that I am!"

Hogan couldn't help but laugh at the realization that the cook, because of his own actions would not be likely to even report the theft of the supplies… and that quite possibly the reason none of their other clandestine shopping trips into the mess hall pantry had ever been reported was because the head cook was likely dealing in the black market and couldn't afford to have anyone discover his activities. The German Army would likely take a dim view of his profiteering at this point in the war, especially as the Allies were playing hob with supply lines in this sector, especially. __(Gee, I wonder who could behind all that sabotage?)__

Hogan sobered and looked around at his men as he rubbed his chin. "Tell you what, fellas, let's put these away, and we'll share 'em to celebrate when Andrew gets well."

Louis thought about it. He smiled at Hogan. "I know something Andre' likes very much, and I can make it easily. It might take a foray into town if the kitchen does not have all the ingredients, but I could make a small batch of orange marmalade. I could even make some nice cakes with the white flour when he is ready for them."

Hogan eyed the chef for a moment. "That sounds perfect, Louis. That way the oranges won't have a chance to go bad."

LeBeau nodded. "I had thought of that."

Hogan looked at the others gathered around the table and grinned. "Well, it seems we have a plan, gentlemen."

The others froze for just a moment… and then seem to soak in the confidence their leader had put into his words. LeBeau was, predictably, the first one to suit action to emotion. He quickly stood and strode over to the cupboard where he kept his supplies. He donned his apron and toque. He pulled out his chopping knife and looked at Newkirk and Olsen. "Well, are you going to hand me those onions? They aren't going to peel themselves you know."

The supplies were quickly sorted, the onions sliced and two of Olsen's new cotton undershirts quickly sacrificed to make a stack of rags. He had just received them two days before from his latest flame in London. She had been sending him care packages fairly regularly, and his teammates had been teasing him about it for some time. Now, they were simply grateful. Newkirk eyed the pile a bit sourly.

"Too bad I can't lift a couple of Shultzie's tee-shirts. That would give us a tidy bit!" The others chuckled at the image that remark conjured up.

Olsen had watched the procedures a little morosely. He was not about to complain, because of course he would do anything for Carter, or any of his teammates… but he hadn't even had a chance to open the three-pack of shirts yet. Ahh, well, at least he felt as if he were helping… especially since the successful raid meant that the strange poultice Taffy had suggested would at least have a chance of succeeding. A better chance than Andrew had right now, anyway…

****~HH~****

****The Infirmary ****

Joe Wilson was by this time used to dealing with Andrew Carter and his propensity for illness and accidents. But this time was different. The truth was simply that he was desperate and had no clue how to help the young prisoner. In the few short hours since Andrew had been under his care, his condition had steadily worsened. He was barely breathing now, and there were a couple of times that Joe thought he might have actually lost him.

The medic was just preparing to go to Barracks Two to get Hogan and Taffy when Gopher once more showed up at the Infirmary and informed him that Col. Hogan needed to see him right away. Wilson agreed, glad he had already talked to Thomas Foster, who was on duty as his assistant. Thomas had agreed to watch Andrew closely, and send for him immediately if there were any changes.

****~HH~****

****In Barracks Two****

Hogan watched as LeBeau began to prepare the onions as Taffy had directed him. It fascinated him when Louis lit, blew out, and then held two smoldering wooden matches between his teeth towards the center of his lips, but slightly separated as he deftly sliced and gathered the rather strong-smelling onions into a bowl. Louis then covered the onions with a cloth, removed the matches and threw them into the woodstove.

Hogan tipped his head to the side. "What was with the matches?"

LeBeau shrugged. "An old trick I picked up somewhere. It cuts the fumes from the onions. Keeps one

from tearing up. Normally I would not waste the matches, but I am in a hurry, and do not have time to waste. Nor is Andre' here to slice them for me. It never bothers him. Unlike some of my compatriots, I am not immune to __l'odeur de l'oignon__."

Hogan chuckled. By this stage in the game, his corporal's words needed no translation. And he had just picked up a handy trick for after the war. He was pretty sure his mother would have no problem sticking her war-hero son on KP in fairly short order once she had finished spoiling him. **

****~HH~****

****The Infirmary****

Hogan and the others watched with interest as LeBeau brought the steaming pan of onions directly into the room. Newkirk quickly constructed the squares of undershirt material into a hot poultice. The trick was to get it hot enough to do the job, but not so hot that it would burn Carter's skin.

Under Taffy's guidance, they layered a few squares of the thin material against his bare chest, and then placed the highly aromatic poultice on top. They covered it with more cloth, and then covered the feverish young man with his blanket.

Taffy shook his head as he stared at Carter. "Have a basin of some kind ready. If the poultice works, he'll bring up a lot of infection. It won't be pretty, but it should help him. Leave the poultice on for about half an hour, no more. Burn it right afterwards. It will be full of infection. You can use one twice a day until he is well."

Wilson looked skeptical but said nothing. Hogan finally asked, "How soon will we know if it's working?"

Taffy's dark eyes were very solemn. "As sick as he is, the onions will either draw the infection out, or he'll die very soon. I don't think there's much question about that, Colonel."

Hogan's eyes widened and he looked at Wilson who simply nodded. The room was very quiet, except for the harsh breathing of their youngest team member. Newkirk went and sat with his best friend, as the others quietly left.

As he made his way back through the tunnel towards his office Hogan's thoughts were dark. __How many times had Taffy watched his friends and relatives being treated with that poultice when he was a child? How many times had it failed?__ It wasn't often the chaplain shared much with them about his childhood, and he and Newkirk shared some painful background that only a few in camp knew anything about. Hogan knew, because Newkirk had shared his secret with him when he first joined the operation.

Newkirk had killed a man in self-defense but was sent to prison as a teenager. He was eventually conscripted into the RAF. Taffy had been a chaplain at the prison where he was incarcerated. Sheer coincidence had later brought the two men to the same POW camp at the same time.***

****~HH~****

****The Infirmary****

Wilson sat at his desk shuffling through a batch of Red Cross requests. It wasn't often that many of his requests were actually filled anymore, but he played the game anyway. He glanced over at Andrew. He had begun coughing again a few minutes ago, and it nearly broke Joe to hear how agonized the boy sounded. __He really doubted the kid was going to survive this time…__

He bent back over his task of filling out endless paperwork, when suddenly he heard the unmistakable sound of gagging. He rushed over to Andrew and grabbed the basin that was positioned right by his cot. He held it in place while the young man brought up what seemed to be masses of infection. Taffy had been correct. It was most definitely not pretty. It was also terribly hard on Andrew, who was left gasping weakly by the time he was finished, a good ten minutes later. Wilson, on the other hand, was elated. When Joe placed his stethoscope onto Carter's chest and listened carefully, he could tell it was already much clearer. Andrew was exhausted, but the poultice had done its job. He made sure Andrew was propped up a bit and let him fall asleep. He then headed over to Barracks Two. He finally had some good news to share.

****~HH~****

The turn-around, when it came, was nothing short of miraculous. They used several more poultices on Carter, which all seemed to work as well as the first one had. He responded quickly to them and began to badger Wilson about getting out of the Infirmary within four days of being declared out of the woods by the relieved medic. Within two days of that declaration, Newkirk had become a regular fixture in the Infirmary, and the combination of patient and visitor nearly drove poor Wilson to distraction.

Therefore, Joe Wilson could be forgiven for releasing Andrew Carter a full week earlier than he had intended. Upon his release into Hogan's custody, Wilson had only one thing to say: "Better you than me, Colonel. I am just happy I don't have to live with those two jokers full time. Will you do me a favor though?"

Hogan tipped his head in mute enquiry.

Wilson grinned. "Keep those two healthy for a while, will ya? I don't think my nerves can take them for a while!" And with that, Wilson departed for Barracks Five, and all was peaceful and quiet in Stalag 13 once more…. Until….

"Peter, you got into my stash while I was sick, didn't you?"

"Well, in my defense, mate, you know Wilson told you not to smoke for at least a month…"

Hogan raised an eyebrow at Kinch as the two slammed out the front door, Carter hot on Newkirk's heels. He sighed. "Guess things are pretty much SOP around here."

Kinch smiled and picked up his book. LeBeau grinned evilly. "I think I will make fish soup for dinner tonight. The three men shared a chuckle and life carried on in Barracks Two.

****~The End~****

****A/N:**** *See my story "Pardon Me." ** This little tip actually does work. My mom taught it to me years ago when I was a kid, first learning how to cook. You can find more information on making onion poultices if you Google it. I have indeed used them, though I would __never__ presume to recommend forgoing professional medical care. *** Peter and Taffy's history is explained in my story "Earthquake."


End file.
